In Amsterdam
by SarkSilver
Summary: A post Hogwarts set fiction, cenered around Oliver Wood and how he would spend some down time from being star keeper.


**Disclaimer:** I Own nothing of Harry Potter, all rights and privileges etc. etc. etc. belong to JK Rowling and Warner Brothers a Time Warner corp. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from this except the profit you get from having warm fuzzy feelings of accomplishment.

**Author's note:** this is a Chrismas present for Pisha, it is an Oliver Wood centered fic, which is something i don't normally do but she just asked me soo nicely. So this is dedicated to her, written for her, and if she is not SATISFIED YET, well tough.

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**In Amsterdam**

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_Amsterdam is dreary._

That was the first thing Oliver had thought as he regained his bearings after the grueling port-key journey. The second was:

_I'm going to kill my travel agent._

The slimy ginger haired witch had assured him it was muggle party central and Oliver needed to get some muggle contact. Muggles who didn't know him. He was tired of all the wizarding recognition. Since he had been made keeper for the National English Team his like had been a blur of Quidditch, witches parties and scandal. Now he knew why Harry hated that Skeeter woman when she didn't make him sound like an idiot she made him sound like a pity case.

'Holding back tears' his arse.

But he was quickly getting tired of it all. As he strolled down the slick cobble stoned streets of muggle Amsterdam he remembered the days in which he craved this kind of recognition now he was desperate to find some escape from the monotony of it all.

So ensconced in his thoughts was he that he bumped right into a shorter girl and caused her to spill her coffee all over her. Coffee-he noted with amusement-probably an American. His suspicions were confirmed milliseconds later when the girl opened her mouth and a stream of Americanized curses spewed out.

"Oh Dammit! And right on my good jeans! Shit! Shit! Shit! Jeez! Watch where you're going you dumb clumsy bastard!"

He was rather startles, having somewhat gotten used to girls just readily forgiving him and begging for his autograph-he reminded himself that he was in muggle territory.

"And you even wasted a perfectly good cup of java mocha too, do you KNOW how hard that is to find in Europe? Well, what the hell are you staring at?"

She was petite, no more than five foot four, though she seemed much taller given her confidence stance, arms folded, head cocked and a single eyebrow arched.

She looked absolutely nothing like anyone else he had ever met, she was tanned, her hair was long and black and pulled off her face, she was delicately boned and was as vicious as a spitting cobra.

His mouth went dry as soon as she snapped at him. He opened it intending to say something clever to try and mellow that intimidating stance and promptly fumbled

"I, er, ah, Sorry, I'm ah-"

She stared at him incredulously for a second and then rolled her eyes.

"Sorry-Wooah, regular orator aren't you?" she said she began dabbing at her jeans and walking off. "Idiot, spills good coffee on expensive-ass jeans and all he says is 'sorry' as if it wasn't-"

By now Oliver was desperate to say something, anything to keep her there though he wasn't sure why he so wanted to talk to her."

"I could buy you another one-"

She whirled around.

"Another what?"

Oliver blanched as he realized that he had practically shouted at her.

"Uhm… coffee."

She turned and walked back to him, eyes narrowed.

He gulped.

"So, you are just going to assume I have nothing to do right now but sit down and have a coffee?" she asked, her voice sounding incredulous. "With a boy who is dumb enough to bump into like a completely annoying oaf."

He tried very hard to find something to say. He was drawing a blank so he just stood there dumbly for a few seconds before mustering up the only think he could think of to say.

"I'm Oliver."

In his defense, he had very little experience with pissed off girls, he had been a Quidditch celebrity since he was in Hogwarts. Still, his name was not enough for an American muggle. So he added:

"a-and I owe you a cup of coffee for spilling yours."

She grinned suddenly.

"Well, hurry up then, Oliver. You're on!" She brushed by him and walked up to sidewalk.

It took him a few seconds to realize that he was meant to follow her, and he did, quickly.

"Er-Your name."

She turned her head tossing her hair over her shoulder; she fixed him with another dazzling smile.

"Patrice."

She led him to a small café, tiny place with tiny chairs and tiny little tables; they sat across each other sipping piping hot coffee for Patrice and tea for Oliver from mismatched antique looking mugs.

Coffee with Patrice who surprisingly invigorating for Oliver considering the girl was a muggle he realized that he could not just use his usual fall back of Quidditch to fill the gaps in conversation. Instead he talked to her about literature and the books he read and was again surprised when she insisted that she was way more well-read than he.

Oliver wasn't as stupid as many people thought he was but she was probably right.

Still, it made him pause. So many girls had dumbed themselves down so as not to turn him off but Patrice's confident-realness was irresistible. He had no other word for it. But he was fascinated with her; her intelligence and her razor sharp wit were far from off putting. He told her that he played competitive rugby- or rather hinted at a contact sport and she had supplied rugby as the aforementioned sport and she wasted no time in insulting him.

"That figures." She said.

"And what does that mean?" he demanded.

Patrice grinned.

"well, only someone who bashes people's heads in for a living can't master the art of looking where they're going, I'm hoping you've got the walking and talking thing under you belt."

"Well, I don't hear you beating on Geometry teachers and I remember getting my head bashed in." he replied smoothly remembering Vector in seventh year Arithmancy. "And you seem far too interested in what's going on bellow my belt."

Patrice cracked a half smile.

"Not a first date, mister." She scolded.

"Does that mean that I get a second?"

He noticed the 'date' comment but refrained from making a comment. She grinned and handed him her card which she had written a note on. He pocketed it with out sparing it a glance.

She looked on intrigued.

"Not even going to check it?" she asked.

Oliver shook his head.

"I trust you."

She looked mildly delighted.

"Oh? So soon," she asked now cocking an eyebrow. "You've only just met me. How are you sure I'm not lying?"

He nodded.

"Should I not trust you? Would you give me a blank card?" He paused. "And if you did, well then, I won't be bothering you anymore. I'd rather not see you than bother you, besides, I wouldn't know even if the number on it was made up or not so what's the difference? I HAVE to trust you."

"You are smarter than you look." She said with a wry smile.

Oliver nodded.

"I'm okay for someone who makes his living getting his head bashed in." he replied using her words. "Besides, I'm rather hoping you aren't arrogant enough to carry around fake business cards to give out to all the poor blokes you deem not good enough for you."

"That's hot." She said. Then she stood abruptly. "Damn! I have to go." She slipped on her coat as he fumbled with the muggle bills. He bade her good bye and silently wished she'd walk away and no see him make a completely fool of himself with money-she seemed to read his mind as she walked off with an unhurried gait. As she opened the door, however, she turned back to him.

"If you are going to hide out in the muggle world, Oliver Wood, You had better learn to handle muggle money."

Oliver dropped the money and his jaw. He looked up at her in complete and utter astonishment. She winked and the excited the café. Oliver scrambled for the card that she had given him and saw that is was heavy parchment with a small Swiss flag on it. It said:

_Patrice Perés, Consulat Americaine De Magic_

He looked back up to the door and then glanced though the window to catch a glance of her but she was gone. He turned the card over and saw the blue spidery letters of what he figured was her handwriting; they spelled out only one word:

_Gotcha._

He shook his head and pocketed it, leaving two crisp 10 Euro notes and to hell with the price of the coffee. He was whistling as soon as he got to the street, he would call on Patrice tomorrow, but he was pretty sure that she would find someway to make it difficult for him. Make it more challenging, make it more fun.

Suddenly Amsterdam didn't seem so dreary anymore.


End file.
